Writing about writing is pathetic, so instead I’ll write about that time in March when we went hiking along ridgetops and firetrails, and the sun baked the rocks hard and impassive to our boots. The orange-and-white tracks folded back upon themselves and seemed so illogical that we thought somehow we were going in circles (round the Sun we missed that one it felt like we weren’t moving)
For lunch you had squished peanut butter and sardine sandwiches because you’re odd and idiosyncratic like that, and I had apples and muesli bars because I’m too lazy to make lunch at 6 in the morning. We ate on a huge rock overlooking trees and Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds was playing on the radio. It felt as if we were two enclosed in a small self-erected hazecloud where birds and lizards and just breeze mingles surprisingly well with John Lennon’s recollections.
I remember the sun-scored rocks had stored up warmth from years of Marchdays like today, they stayed warm slightly longer than the air did. We tasted each other’s post-lunch mouths (you were sardine and kind of gross) and pretended like our hands were ants, scuttling aimlessly (we had an aim)
I liked to think my fingers were all elegant and smooth as the moon. I love you and I want to make you happy here, I love you and I want you to make me happy here, i should sleep – you should sleep – we should sleep together.
I still remember that Marchday when we went hiking and I’ve written about it dozens of times before in different modes with other characters but to be honest I don’t want to write about anything else.